


Kings And Queens

by Silver_Queen_DoS



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, warg!sansa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 09:02:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20468471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Queen_DoS/pseuds/Silver_Queen_DoS
Summary: In fleeing the Red Keep, Sansa takes a secret passage through an old wardrobe and winds up somewhere else entirely.





	Kings And Queens

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Alternate Universe Exchange (2019); this doesn't fit any particular persons requests, so is gifted in general to the collection.

Sansa runs. 

Her purple dress isn’t made for it, too tight and constricting and heavy, and her slippers were made for sitting calmly at a royal wedding and not racing through the halls of the Red Keep. 

Behind her, there is shouting. The uproar of the wedding, Cersei lamenting over her son’s poisoned corpse, guards stamping and clanging in armour. Ser Dontas is shouting too, trying to catch up with her. 

But fear gives her speed. 

If the Lannisters think Tyrion killed Joffery… if they think _Sansa_ had anything to do with it, as Dontas implied… 

They’ll kill Lady. 

Sansa wouldn’t survive that. She’d known, even when Cersei had threatened to have her killed for the crime of biting Joffery – a crime she hadn’t committed – that killing Lady would be as good as killing her own heart. 

_The lone wolf dies but the pack survives_. Lady is the only part of her pack that remains. She won’t – _can’t_ – leave her behind. 

She keeps running, even as her breath comes short and pain lances up her sides. Her hands fist in her skirts and hold them high, but even so she stumbles hard as she bursts into the royal kennels. The Kennel Master looks up in surprise, moves like he wishes to stop her and stall her, but Sansa near collapses against the door of Lady’s cage. 

It’s far back, as far from the other hounds as possible, with empty cages on all sides. The smell of wolf makes the hounds nervous, and even the other kennel servants avoid her. 

Sansa fumbles in the folds of her dress for the key to unlock the cage. She has it with her at all times, even to the royal wedding, because its her most _precious_ possession. She lives in fear it would be stolen, or taken, or that the Lannisters would force her to give it up the way they force Lady to remain in the kennels. 

The cage door clicks open and she fumbles, drops the key in her haste to pull it open. But Lady is there, presses against her side, all warm fur and coiled energy, like she knows they have to _run._

“That isn’t permitted,” the Kennel Master says, moving as if to block their path back to the door. 

Lady _growls_. 

Sansa coils her hand in the fur of Lady’s neck, and lifts her chin. “Be as that may,” she says with as much dignity as possible. “We must be going.” 

She moves past him, gaining speed until she’s running again. Even that seems easier with Lady loping alongside her. 

But run _where_? 

Ser Dontas had said there was a boat at the docks, that they could escape. But _who_? How had he known to have a boat? Where would they go? 

Sansa knows nothing and it makes her feel like a foolish child. 

But where else is there? Remaining within the Red Keep will surely get her killed. Going to the small folk will get her worse than killed. 

Every time she hears guards – hears people at all – they turn and keep running, winding deeper and deeper into the Red Keep. At the last turn, there are guards on both ends of the corridor, but Lady pushes open a door and Sansa darts into some empty abandoned room. 

There is nothing in it but an old weirwood wardrobe, and fear and instinct alone make her try the handle. Lady pushes inside it, bowling through old moth-eaten and forgotten cloaks and dresses. Sansa follows her, pulling the door shut behind her and moving backwards. It is a poor hiding place, a childish one, that would not even fool Bran in a game of hide-and-seek in Winterfell, but it’s all she has. 

She moves backwards and backwards and nearly falls when there is no wall behind her. 

Faint hope leaps in her chest. All castles have secret passages – for the movement of servants, escape routes for the families that live within them in case of attack – but Sansa knows nothing of those within the Red Keep. 

And yet- 

If this is- 

It is pitch black inside the wardrobe, in the secret passage, but Sansa holds her hands in front of her and pushes forward. Lady seems unconcerned, moving forward with easy surety and even in the dark Sansa knows where she is as easily as she knows the location of her own arms and legs. 

And then- 

They’re not in a secret passage at all. 

The walls of stone become trees. The dust underfoot becomes dirt and then grass. The darkness gives way to lamplight from a lamp burning high atop a metal pole. 

It is not cold but Sansa is chilled to the bone all the same. She spins in a slow circle, looking around, and sees nothing but trees on all sides. There are no forests like this in Kings Landing, nothing beyond the Godswood 

There are no sounds of pursuit, no guards chasing her. 

Sansa does not know where she is, but she knows where she is _not._

She just does not know if that is an _improvement_. 

She walks through the trees – even if there is no _obvious_ path behind her, it seems wise to put distance behind her, just in case. Lady darts ahead of her, flickers of grey between the trees in the darkness, taking advantage of the chance to run and frolic in the outdoors rather than remain cooped up in a filthy cage. 

“Goodness gracious me!” 

Sansa whirls. She hadn’t noticed anyone around. But whatever she expects to see- 

The man that has snuck up on her is small in stature, but after Tyrion that is less surprising. But his legs are strange – like a goat not a human at all. 

“I-“ she stammers and then remembers herself enough to curtsey. “Excuse me, ser. I am quite lost. Might you direct me to the nearest settlement?” 

To be alone with a strange man is dangerous, but Sansa is not as afraid as she might otherwise be. She can feel Lady in the trees now, turned around and stalking closer, camouflaged and prepared to attack. He is no knight in armour, immune to a direwolf’s teeth. 

“Quite lost? Why yes, I imagine you are, for a Daughter of Eve to be wandering around in the Lantern Wastes,” the man repeats, then gives her a look of dawning recognition. “I say. Might you, perchance, be from the War Drobe and Spare Oom?” 

It takes her a second to decipher. “Well, yes,” Sansa says, bewildered, “there was a wardrobe in a spare room. Where are the Lantern Wastes?” 

“Why in Narnia, of course!” the man says. “Excuse me, excuse my manners. My name is Tumnus and I am most delighted to meet you! Why, you are not the first young girl I have encountered from War Drobe, and I must say, I think Queen Lucy will be _thrilled_ that you are here.” 

That sounds terrible, actually. The _last_ thing Sansa wants is the attention of another Queen. 

“I- I would not hope to approach a Queen with such paltry information,” Sansa says, demurely. She holds onto her politeness and courtesy by her fingernails, tightly and desperately. “I’m sure she has many greater concerns than one lost girl.” 

“What greater concerns could there be?” Ser Tumnus says, as if he genuinely cannot think of any. It is kind of him, but his kindness is dangerous to her. “But, oh, oh, you mustn’t be afraid. Queen Lucy is terribly kind and brave- you will be perfectly safe. I will say to you, I will say to you, when last I happened across a young girl from War Drobe, it was Queen Lucy herself! Jadis was the Queen then, of course, and she was- well. She had given word that we were to report all humans in Narnia to her, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so! It was very nearly the end of me, and would have been, if not for Aslan himself.” 

He appears genuinely flustered, but Sansa isn’t sure how to take any of that. There’s too much _new information_, too tangled together, when she herself barely understands how she came to be standing here. It feels too much like a dream. 

“So, of course, you may trust that if I thought harm would come to you I would never suggest it at all!” 

“And besides,” Ser Tumnus goes on. “It is so late that nothing more can be done today. You should not wander so in the woods at night alone; dark things still lurk hereabouts. Come with me – my cave is not so far from here and you shall be perfectly safe there.” 

“There are no other settlements nearby?” Sansa asks, carefully. 

Tumnus shakes his heads. “The dryads, well. They live everywhere there are trees, of course, but the Lantern Wastes are not particularly popular. Even now, they are too close to the White Witch’s castle – it make people uncomfortable. And, if you mean _human_ settlements… why, there are none in all of Narnia. The only humans live in Cair Paravel itself.” 

Whatever that means, Sansa doubts it is _good_ for her. In the short term, it seems to say she will have no better option than to go with Ser Tumnus, who at least seems _kind_ and _concerned_. 

“Then I thank you,” she says softly and hopes she isn’t making a mistake. 

* * *

Ser Tumnus’ cave is small but cosy and well decorated. He apologizes for the sparse fare but feeds her fresh bread with rich butter and fruit preserves spread across it and warm drinks that she does not recognise but are sweet. 

Sleeping is slightly awkward, for she has no maids to help her with her dress, and nothing to change into even if she had. But exhaustion weighs her down eventually and she dreams through Lady’s eyes, running through a strange forest alive with smells and sounds she does not recognise but does not fear. 

When she wakes in the morning the sun is bright and the smell of cooking food permeates the cave, rousing her. When she ventures out of the small bedroom, she finds Tumnus talking to a swift, perched on the back of a chair. 

“Good morning, Daughter of Eve!” the swift says, fluffing its feathers. “How fantastic it is to meet you!” 

Sansa pauses in the doorway, clutching at the frame so hard that her knuckles go white. Her eyes dart over the bird, looking for some… _trick_ or trap or explanation. Yet both the robin and Tumnus act as if it is perfectly natural for a bird to talk as a human. 

She swallows and steps forward. “Good morning,” she says and curtseys. “I was remiss in my manners last night — I am Sansa Stark, daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark, of Winterfell.” 

Whoever ‘Eve’ is, Sansa does not wish to compound her danger here with misunderstandings or of claiming a heritage she does not have. 

“Lady Sansa!” the swift twitters. “I am Needletail, the fastest flyer of Cair Paravel! News of your arrival has reached the castle and our monarchs bade me depart immediately to see to you!” 

Sansa’s heart sinks. “Already?” she says, gingerly sinking down to sit at the table. She has no appetite any longer, but knows she should eat. Who knows when she will next get the chance. 

Needletail bobs his head. “Indeed! The Dryads spoke to the Eastward Wind and their words were carried with all haste!” he looks — if she can interpret the body language of a bird — pleased. “His and Her Highnesses are on their way here at once!” 

“On their way here!” Tumnus says, alarmed. “Goodness, Needletail, you did not say that! I have not cleaned! I have not baked! Oh, oh. There’s so much to do!” 

Needletail makes a dismissive sound. “They aren’t intending to stay, Tumnus.” 

Tumnus is already bustling back into the kitchen. “I will still have more to offer them than bread,” he says. “Maybe some scones… or cake… dear Lucy does have a sweet tooth…” 

Sansa remains awkwardly at the table. She thinks of fleeing into the forest, with Lady at her side, but it’s a wistful dream, the same thought she had had in the Red Keep many times. Impossible but tempting. 

Even more impossible now, if the trees and wind are against her. If the Queen can dispatch a bird that can fly the length of the country in a night. 

She takes a deep breath and marshals her courage. She survived Kings Landing. She can survive this. 

She spreads the fruit preserves across her bread and says, with the idle casualness of court courtesies, “you are the fastest flyer of Cair Paravel? That must be a truly wonderful honour.” 

Needletail resettles his wings. “Oh, yes,” he says. “There are none that can match me at all!” 

Gently, she coaxes him into telling her about the castle, about the country, about the Queen — which turns out not to be _just_ Queen Lucy, but a whole quartet of them. Two brothers and two sisters, crowned by ‘Aslan himself’. 

“And she— I mean, they — came from… outside of Narnia?” she inquires. Her own arrival is still a confusing dream, she doesn’t know how to ask. But maybe it’s common and that’s why no one else seems all that surprised. 

“Oh yes,” Needletail says. “I was not there, of course, but they were sent by Aslan to end the Age of Winter and overthrow Queen Jadis.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Say… you aren’t here to overthrow _them_ are you?” 

“No!” Sansa blurts out, horrified. As if she needed more reason to worry about the arrival of royalty. If they think she’s here to play the game of thrones… if they think she wants their crown… 

“Oh, well. Good,” Needletail says. “I don’t think we would like a new Queen quite so soon.” 

After that there’s little enough to do but wait. Needletail flies into the forest to scout and to rest. Tumnus remains in the kitchen and though Sansa tries to help neaten up, there’s not much for her to do. Instead, she sits at a little table just outside of Tumnus’ cave and tries to enjoy the sunshine. Her mind turns in circles over the little she knows of the monarchs, trying to prepare herself or plot stratagems or _anything_. 

Eventually, such thinking drifts into daydreams, and in her mind she slips through the dappled shade of the trees, four paws moving in harmony. 

Ahead of her, she smells men and horses, the steel-and-leather smell of knights. It makes her cautious and she creeps, belly low to the ground, until she can see them. They number only four but they move swiftly. They are not silent, laughing and calling to each other like any royal procession. 

They look young, she thinks. Even the eldest is no more than five-and-ten and the youngest girl is perhaps ten. And there are no large phalanx of guards or knights with them. 

“It shall be grand to see Mr. Tumnus again,” the youngest girl says. “I am ever so looking forward to it.” 

“We should visit more often,” the second girl says, “it is not so very far, after all.” 

The eldest boy draws his horse to a stop, looking out over the forest, eyes skimming _so close_ to where she is hiding. “Hush a minute,” he says, “I think there is something in the forest.” 

His hand goes to his sword, and now he has stilled she can see that his shield bears a red lion rampant on it. 

Sansa — real Sansa, sitting in the sunshine outside Tumnus’ cave — blinks and swallows. Her mouth is suddenly dry. She wants Lady at her side, wants to know she is safe and not hunted in a forest by a lion marked king. 

She wipes her sweating palms and goes inside. “I believe they are close,” she says, proud that her voice does not tremble. 

“And just in time!” Tumnus says. There are many plates of food on the counter now, small cookies and cake and other goods. “I shall ready hot water for tea.” 

The royal party arrives with haste — they must have galloped the last mile to make it so quickly. Sansa stands straight and calm faced as they dismount their horses, and takes them in with her own eyes. 

She should be more surprised that they are exactly as she pictured, but finds she is not. They make a regal picture, the eldest is golden and the others are all dark of hair, but all of them beautiful and handsome. None of them are much older than she is, but after Joffery she can’t even pretend to believe that a youthful king means a kind one. 

She can feel Lady, returning to her. She’s circling them in the forest, slinking back to Sansa’s side to support her. Part of her wants Lady far away — this is where the danger is, swords and kings both, and if Lady stays away she might escape unharmed — but most of her craves the reassurance of her direwolf. 

Even knowing that they cannot fight back — Sansa cannot and even if Lady did these are _Kings_ and harming them will only result in armies being leveled against them — there is comfort in having Lady there. 

_The lone wolf dies but the pack survives._

But even before introductions can be made— 

The eldest glances past her with the constant assessing gaze of a good knight and she can see in his face the second he catches sight of Lady, the shift from casual to dangerous. 

He draws his sword. “A wolf! It was hunting us through the forest.” 

Sansa throws herself backwards, hand reaching out. Lady is there, at her side, instantly, and Sansa wraps an arm around her, as if she can use her own body as a shield. “Wait!” she cries. “She’s good and kind, I swear! She’s never harmed anyone!” 

_Sing, little bird_, the Hound had told her. And she had, she’d been a caged songbird in King’s Landing and had sung to survive. She’ll do it again. 

“Peter, you beast,” says the littlest Queen. “You’ve frightened her.” 

She slides under her brothers arm — still holding a sword — and approaches, crouching down near Lady and offering her hand. “Hullo, I’m Lucy.” 

Lady sniffs it delicately and then, as Sansa mentally hopes and prays she reacts well, magnanimously presses her cheek against it briefly. 

“You won’t talk to me?” the Queen sounds disappointed. 

“She’s very quiet,” Sansa says, hastily. Do they expect Lady to be _able_ to speak, like Needletail? Do all the animals speak? What will happen if Lady doesn’t? “Her name is Lady. She’s a direwolf.” 

“Lady Direwolf,” Queen Lucy says, smiling brightly. “And?” 

“Sansa. Sansa Stark of Winterfell,” Sansa says, stumbling through her own name and introduction. This has gone worse than she could have imagined. 

But behind Queen Lucy, the King sheaths his sword. He does not look precisely happy, and she doubts he will turn his back on Lady, but clearly Lucy has enough sway to stay execution. 

Lucy takes her hand. “Well, I am pleased to meet you! I’m Lucy,” she repeats. “And this is Peter; he’s the High King. And Susan, and Edmund.” 

“I’ve never heard of Winterfell,” King Edmund says, thoughtfully. “I suppose it wouldn’t happen to be near London, would it?” 

“I’ve never heard of London, your grace,” Sansa says helplessly. “I couldn’t say.” 

“I do suppose it was too much to hope that you would be from our old home,” Queen Susan says, with a soft, regretful smile. She reminds Sansa so sharply of Margarey who could wield politeness and kindness as well as men could wield weapons. 

“It would have been nice though,” Lucy says, with a touch of wistfulness. She stands, and Sansa stands with her. “But you shall have to tell us all about Winterfell, and we shall tell you all about Narnia.” 

Sansa expects them to want to return to their castle immediately, or at least to begin questioning her but instead Ser Tumnus brings out tea and his careful baking and Queen Lucy declares that it’s “a darling day for a picnic”, so they all arrange themselves outside to eat and drink. 

“Don’t worry too much,” Queen Lucy advises her, with a surprising solemnity for a ten year old. “If Aslan brought you here it would be for a reason, and we shall find it together. It was scary for us, when we arrived, but we had _lots_ of help and it was no more than we could handle.” 

Queen Susan gives her another beautiful smile. “We shall help you with whatever needs to be done.” 

Sansa smiles at her weakly. ‘Supportive’ is far from the worst attitude a queen could have, but she is wary of the idea of being _chosen_ for some kind of task. 

“I do wonder what it could be,” Peter says, frowning. “Aslan hardly interferes for _small_ matters. His last act was to make us Kings and Queens.” 

Sansa shifts, prepared to defend _again_ against an accusation of playing the game of thrones. It seems, no matter where she goes, somehow she lands in the thick of it and needs survive. “Mayhap I have some skill to assist _you_?” she asks, sweetly. “Though I know not what that would be.” 

King Edmund says, “ha. Mayhap she knows how to run a castle.” He says it with the air of one making a jest. 

But Sansa blinks at him in confusion. “Well, yes?” she says. “I learnt from my mother in preparation of running my own household one day.” 

The four siblings go quiet and look at each other. 

And then Lucy laughs. “Oh, goodness! Aslan _has_ sent us aid. Oh, please, Lady Sansa. Say you’ll come to Cair Paravel and help us.” 

Surely they can’t _possibly_ be seriously considering allowing a complete stranger access to their castle records? 

But that seems to be exactly what they do intend. It is not without supervision, but it is more than she would consider wise. 

“We’ve only been in charge for two years,” King Edmund tells her. If she ignores the titles and thinks of the four of them as some kind of small council instead, she thinks he would be the Master of Laws of Narnia. He is the one that overlooks her work, in addition to his own. “And well, most of it we’ve stumbled our way through. Dealing with Jadis’ army, diplomacy with Archenland… but there’s still things that trip us up. Do you know Narnia doesn’t have any kind of currency? No gold standard. Everything is really done in barter and trade. Makes it an awful nuisance to manage accounts. And people keep mentioning taxes and…” 

He makes a face. 

Sansa covers her mouth so she does not smile or laugh. “I see,” she says. “That sounds difficult. I will do my utmost to help.” 


End file.
